


Connection

by Twisha



Series: Connection Series [1]
Category: Castle, Firefly
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisha/pseuds/Twisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite never having met, two people in the 'verse share a strange connection.  No time travel, no slash.  Set entirely in the Firefly 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gunslinger

Richard Castle was having the time of his life. Not only was he a ruggedly handsome, wildly popular, and stunningly successful author of historical fiction, but now he was also one half of a powerful crime-fighting duo and partnered with an amazingly beautiful and intelligent detective who had (grudgingly) agreed to be his muse.

Plus he was holding a gun.

It was a real gun too, bullets and all, not one of those wimpy stun guns the civil defense force used or even one of the swanky laser pistols that were not strictly legal but seemed to be everywhere among the well to do of New New York. As he stared down the site of the pistol at the holographic target, with his muse flush against his back no less, it occurred to Richard Castle that this must be what Heaven was like. 

Now all he had to do was hit the damn target.

When they had told him that Beckett had gone to the shooting range to blow off steam (and how sexy was that?), he had high-tailed it down there as fast as he could.

To ask her about the captures.

Yeah, that was it.

He had flirted, of course, given her a hard time about targets being easier to hit if they were standing still or something. She had given him that look, and all of a sudden his bluff was called. The gun was surprisingly heavy in his hand, something real and frighteningly permanent in the all too ethereal world of Londinium. Then she had touched him and the damn thing went off, bullet skittering off into the darkness, far wide of the target.

"Shot too soon," he'd quipped.

"That's OK Castle, we can always just cuddle".

God she was hot.

He really did want the captures. Then he could show them to his contact and maybe get some sort of lead on this. He wanted to catch this guy, not just to impress the girl, (although he hoped she would be impressed), but because it was right. It was Justice. That's what he loved the most about working with Beckett, more than the thrill (which was considerable), and even more than the inspiration she provided. When he worked with Kate, they got the bad guys.

So she had challenged him, three shots at the ten ring. One would get him access. Unfortunately, he was beginning to realize that as far as gun play was concerned, he kinda sucked. The gun jumped, and his muscles ached, and the bullets just would not go where he wanted them. He needed those photos.

For Justice.

His eyes found the target and he raised the weapon. Something washed over him then, something strange and a little frightening. His shoulders relaxed, his arm stilled, and the target seemed to fill his vision. He felt confident, and strong, as if he had done this hundreds of times before. Time slowed to a crawl. Between one heartbeat and the next, three shots rang out, and the ten ring sported a single hole.

He blinked.

What The Hell?

Then Beckett was congratulating him and he said something smart-alecky about her being a good teacher or some such but his brain remained stunned. What had happened? How had he done that? It was pretty bad ass, he had to admit. He just couldn't seem to shake the utterly unsettling feeling that, in that moment, he had not been Rick Castle at all. He had been Someone Else. 

And that scared the everliving Hell out of him.

 

Somewhere, far out in the black, Malcolm Reynolds turned over in his bunk.

Who stuffs a person in a safe, anyway?


	2. On the Way to the Valley Part 1

21 March, 2511

After five years of war, Zoe Alleyne figured she knew Malcolm Reynolds better than just about anybody in the 'verse. She'd seen him shot, stabbed, too damn drunk to spit straight, bare-ass naked, and on one memorable occasion, all four of them at once. In all that time, however, she'd never seen him anything like this.

His expression was disturbingly cheerful. "You ever heard of Sardines Zoe?"

"Sir?"

"Sardines," Mal repeated. He poked absently at something on the seat back hanging over him. "They're these tiny little fish they harvest on New Melbourne."

"I'm familiar with the concept, sir. What about them?"

"Well," he said, warming to his topic, "you see, they take a whole bunch of those little fish and stuff them very tightly in these tins." He mimed a packing motion with his hands. "Then, they toss in a handful of salt and seal the lid. It keeps em fresh for months. They can ship 'em all over the verse that way." He made a large, sweeping gesture with his arm. Close as their quarters were at the moment, he narrowly avoided smacking her upside the head.

"Ah," she said, nodding in sudden understanding. "Never thought I'd be lookin' at things from their perspective."

"My point exactly!" he exclaimed, flashing a slightly maniacal grin. "Although", he considered, growing serious for a second, "now that I think about it, those fish may have had more room than we."

There was something odd about his speech, she realized. Not that Zoe wasn't inclined to agree with his words, mind. The troop carrier, which looked about as old as the verse itself, was stuffed to the bulwarks with warm bodies. Up until a few weeks ago it had been nothing more than an old cargo freighter, but once the call came down that extra grunts would be needed on Hera right quick, it had been hastily retrofitted to suit the independents' purposes. Never mind that it didn't have any grav dampeners in the cargo bay. They needed boots on Hera, and they needed 'em yesterday, and if body had to withstand more than a few hours of microgravity to get there, then so be it. At least that's what the Brass had decided anyhow. Now she and near a thousand souls were flat on their backs sitting pretty on several thousand tons of high explosives, all ready to fight for the cause. Assuming this old clunker made it off the launch pad that is. She turned her head to consider the man strapped next to her.

"More room than us you mean?"

His eyes lost focus for a second as he shook his head. "We. First person plural," he mumbled.

Zoe blinked. "Shénme(what)?" she blurted.

And then he was back. "Did I say something funny?"

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked.

"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

She looked at him then, really looked at him. Something was definitely off, but she couldn't for the life of her put her finger on what. He was, for lack of a better word, fidgety. Not that Mal was an unusually still man as a rule, he often had a quiet intensity about him, but he was generally able to contain most of his energy most of the time. It was a soldier's thing, she supposed, economy of movement. Soldiers, the good ones at least, learned right quick that there was a limit to human endurance and, war being the unpredictable beast it was, there was a good chance that they could be pushed up against that limit at any time. As there were few people in the 'verse who had the balls to deny that Mal was a damn good soldier, and those few would be dead wrong besides, he normally husbanded his resources carefully.

Now though, his feet tapped the wall in an irritating rhythm. He poked and pulled at his straps. He was, dear God, was he humming to himself? He was acting less like the disciplined Sergeant she depended on and more like a, well, like a demented nine-year-old on a sugar rush. Even the smirk he gave her when he noticed her watching was decidedly more crooked than usual.

Good Lord, was he drunk?

"I'm not drunk!" he exclaimed.

She raised an eyebrow.

"What", he whined. "Oh come on Zoe, I've been good! Nothing to eat or drink since last night."

Her second eyebrow joined the first. Since when did Malcolm Reynolds whine?

"Besides", he continued, his voice lowering conspiratorially, "I don't do well in zero-g, you know that."

Comprehension dawned. "You let them drug you."

"Would you rather I spend the trip dry heaving into your lap?" he pouted.

She raised her hands to her temples, trying to ward off the near inevitable headache. "Ai ya Mal, don't you know that those drugs mess with your head?" The use of his given name was a sure sign of her irritation.

"The ones for motion sickness?" He looked dubious.

She nodded. "There is one they call the 'Zombie drug'. It makes you very susceptible to suggestion."

"How do I know if they gave me that one?"

"Bizui (shut up)", she said. His eyebrows shot up, "bizui, sir", she added.

There was a brief silence.

"I don't think it worked", he quipped.

"Pity", she replied.

To her surprise he shivered. "Zoe, is it cold in here to you?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, that gesture familiar at least. "And why is everyone shouting all of a sudden?"

"Temperature's fine sir. A bit on the warm side even. " The hum of activity around them hadn't increased either. Worried now, she placed a hand on his shoulder. She could feel heat radiating off his body, even through the soft leather of his coat. His eyes were dilated, his face flushed. She slid out of the seat and had one foot on the ladder before he could say anything else.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"To get the medic sir."

"The hell you are." He struggled clumsily with his own straps. "We're supposed to break atmo in half an hour!" he yelled.

It was too late. She was already gone.

She couldn't find Charlie Davis, the squad's normal doc. He must've been in a different section. Poor planning on the Brass' part but that was to be expected. So she climbed all the way up to the officers' section, experiencing a brief wave of vertigo as the "wall" she was climbing suddenly decided to become the floor. So the officers could have artificial grav could they? Damn them, and damn Mal too while she was at it. If he hadn't've insisted on staying with his troops there would have been no need for meds in the first damn place. "Stubborn hu dan," she muttered, not quite sure if she was referring to Mal or her ownself. She managed to find Mal's immediate superior and demanded, quietly and patiently, to speak to a doctor. Lieutenant Chang sneered at her.

"What's the matter Zoe, that Sergeant of yours givin' you fits again?"

"No sir." She said, biting back a sarcastic retort. Arguing with this hu dan (bastard) wouldn't get Mal the help he needed; no matter how much she might have enjoyed it. "I think he's having a bad reaction to the motion sickness meds."

"What kind of reaction?" A soft, sleek voice inquired from somewhere behind her. She turned, and beheld a small man, clearly of Asian descent. His short hair was thinning and his face was spotted with liver marks. His eyes glinted behind tiny, yet costly, corrective lenses. Something about his nose and mouth put her in mind of a rat.

She despised him immediately.

He wore a baby blue lab coat that was slightly the worse for wear. A worn area on the front indicated that some sort of patch or logo had been removed recently. He stood just a hair too close to her, forcing her to crane her neck downward to meet his beady little eyes.

"Nervousness, sudden fever, and he said that people 'round us were talkin' too loud". She hesitated. "And there's something wrong with the way he's talkin," she said.

"His rimworlder colloquialisms too much for you Corporal?" scoffed the Lieutenant, amazing himself with his own wit.

"No." It hit her then, what had been bugging her the whole time. How could she have missed it? It was obvious. "He's lost his accent."

The unnamed doctor leered greedily, his perfect teeth strange in the pock-marked face. "Excellent," he said. "Please take me to him!"

Zoe lead him into the cargo bay, even more taciturn than usual. The doc on the other hand, giggled and twittered like a kid at Christmas.

"Oh this is so exciting! I was afraid there wouldn't be any on this trip!" he exclaimed.

"Any what?" she asked, not liking the sound of this at all.

Someone yelled from below, "Hey, I think this guy's having a seizure!"

The doctor's smile widened. "Any Readers, of course!" He glanced down. "We'd better hurry though."

She'd never moved faster in her life.

 

Author's note: I decided to make this part a three shot because it was getting too long. Don't freak out about the reader thing though, Mal is under the influence of a really nasty drug. (Seriously, look up the effects of scopolamine, but only if you're prepared to have nightmares. It's that bad.) He's not normally like this.

Any guesses as to what's going on?

Reviews are super shiny inspiration! Thanks for reading.


	3. On the Way to the Valley Part 2

Author's note: How's my Mal voice?

Mal Reynolds considered himself an adaptable sort of fellow. Came in handy, line of work he was in. He'd heard once that 'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy', which was true enough, though in his experience things tended to go south even sooner. Still, being able to roll with the punches had saved the life of his and his own more times than he could count.

But he hadn't the slightest damn clue how to respond to this.

"Ok doc, hows about you explain that again?"

The weasely little man sighed and began again. "You are experiencing a drug-induced TPE *you moron*".

That last bit weren't exactly audible in the strictest sense of the word, and therein lay the problem. Ever since he'd woken up in this sorry excuse for an infirmary he'd been hearing all manner of things he had no business knowing. Oh, it could be useful he supposed, being able to tell if a man were lying to you and such but it made Mal uncomfortable. Folk kept secrets for a reason. He didn't need to know exactly what Zoe thought of his ass (flattering as it may be, it was unprofessional) and he didn't even want to think about why Lt. Chang wanted his whores to call him Daddy. He felt like a regular peeping Tom, and the worst part was, he couldn't seem to turn it off.

"Right", Mal said, "Transparent psychic doohicky".

"NO," the doc replied. His assertion was accompanied by several more disparaging thoughts about Mal's upbringing and intelligence (or lack thereof), but Mal tried to ignore it and focus on what was being said. "T.P.E." the man repeated, as if to a small child. "Transient Psionic Episode, brought on by the topical application of scopolamine as a prophylactic against motion sickness." Mal grinned. At least he'd managed to piss the fellow off. It was the least he could do considering the trouble the doc had caused him.

Mal started again. "So you gave me a drug that allows me to hear what other folk are thinking." The doc nodded. "Shiny as that is," and Mal gave him a glare that said that it was anything but, "what I want to know is when the hell is it going to wear off?"

"Scopolamine has a half-life of about ten hours. You have been unconscious for six. *I gave him the additional dose right after he was brought in.* We really don't know how long the psionic effects will last." The doc smiled creepily. "That's why this interview is so important Mr. Reynolds. This is a rare phenomenon you are experiencing. The potential for scientific discovery is enormous."

With difficulty, Mal restrained an entirely reasonable urge to punch the doc in the face. Gorramn Core folk, ready to pump you full of drugs for a science experiment without even having the courtesy to ask. Wasn't that why the war existed in the first damn place? Why was this doc even here? His soldier's instincts began to scream. Something was very, very wrong.

"I ain't your gorramn lab rat," he growled, swinging his legs over the side of the table. The room spun wildly and the doc had to grab him to keep him off the floor. His touch was cold and papery, almost corpse-like, but that was not what made Mal pull away in horror.

He Saw. Everything.

Everything this man was, everything he wanted to do, to Mal, to, dear God, to children. He would cut them up and put them back together. Make them into Tools to be Used until they broke. The worst kind of slavery.

He had to stop him.

The doc pulled back as soon as Mal regained his balance on the examination table. Mal considered his situation. Now that he knew the doc was an enemy, Mal began to think tactically.

One, he was in trouble. This man planned on taking him back to the core for more 'tests'. He wasn't planning on asking either. That pissed Mal off but he suppressed it. He needed to think this through. Sad to say, he couldn't just punch the doc. Whatever this drug was it was messing with his balance. After wracking his brain, (and inadvertently the brains of a few other folk on the ship) he decided to fall back on his usual brilliant escape plan.

Stall until Zoe could get there to pull his pigu out of the fire.

At least this time he knew for a fact that she was coming for him, not that he ever really doubted, but it was nice to be absolutely sure. Being psychic wasn't all bad he supposed. Then his mind brushed up against the doc's again. He really was a foul creature, kicked out of his lab for 'unethical' practices. That's why he was here, trying to get back in his company's good graces. Mal shivered.

So, how to play this? He could act excited, eager for more power. No, he needed information. Not just information, he needed proof. His gaze fell on a medical recorder. A plan started to form.

"You just need to interview me?" Mal asked.

The doc nodded.

"You gonna record it?"

The doc nodded again.

"Well, I figure that'd be alright."

The evil little man beamed and busied himself preparing the recorder. Mal tried not to gag as the man's thoughts assaulted him. Blue Sun, the Alliance, psychic assassins, it was all too much. He shook his head. He had to focus. Get the proof and get out of here Just another mission. He'd sort out the metaphysical implications later.

The doc pulled a data stick out of a drawer and inserted it into the device. Then he turned to Mal.

"Ok, let's get the basics out of the way. What is your full name?"

"Malcolm Alexander Reynolds."

"Age?"

"27*"

"Height, weight?"

"6'1''. 175lb."

"Family?"

Mal shoved down a surge of anger. "None." He answered.

The doc looked up questioningly. "None?"

Mal gritted his teeth. "That's right."

The shorter man looked skeptical.

Mal narrowed his eyes. "I'm from Shadow." he asserted. The doc didn't understand. He opened his mouth to ask if Mal was certain he had no relatives. Mal pointedly preempted him. "I'm from Shadow." The man offered a sad excuse for an apology that Mal would have known was insincere even if he hadn't been able to pick the thoughts out of his head. The doc was sorry, not that an entire planet got wiped out, but that he couldn't access anyone who might share this "ability". Mal felt sick again. These core docs were twisted. He doubted he'd ever be able to trust one again. Mal came back to himself as the doc continued his questions.

"Could you please describe what you are experiencing?"

"I can hear what folk are thinking."

"No", the doc replied heatedly, "that's not what I'm looking for". Becoming agitated, the man began to pace. "I have already proved conclusively that this phenomenon exists." Mal 'heard' the man's mind bubble with arguments and justifications for his assertion. Mal tried to keep from grinning. This was his in, all he needed to do was doubt the doc and that would put him on the defensive. It sure was a hell of a lot easier to manipulate people when you could hear what they were thinkin. Then again, he thought sourly, that was sort of the point. His inner grin faded as he remembered the stakes. The doc kept talking. "What I want to know is, how does it feel, qualitatively that is?"

"Look doc," Mal said, deciding to go for broke, "How do you know I ain't just hallucinating all this?" The doc bristled. "I mean, psychic? Me? Golly doc, how does that work?" He'd played the 'dumb rimworlder' card before. It put people off, made them underestimate him. Mal needed this guy to take the bait, and would take any advantage he could get. "And I'm afraid I'm gonna need that in Sargeant dummy talk", he said, before the doc launched into a tirade about 'peer reviewed articles' and 'statistically significant results'. "I mean, most folk what got this drug don't start hearing voices. What's so special 'bout me?"

"It's the amygdala", the doc said, and Mal knew he had him. His voice took on a lecturing tone. "Scopolomine is a tropane alkaloid drug with muscarinic antagonist effects." At Mal's blank look he explained, "It blocks the action of acetylcholine in certain parts of the nervous system." He tried again, "It makes it so that some parts of your brain can't signal correctly, among them a small area in the middle of the brain called the amygdala. In most people that area is responsible for attributing emotion to memories. It is instrumental in the development of phobias and addiction. We've known this for hundreds of years. About fifteen years ago, a woman we call M.H. came into a hospital on Osiris. She had had an unusual stroke. Among the areas affected was her hippocampus, which encodes memories, and her amygdala. Her functioning was very impaired, she could no longer form new memories, and yet she knew the name of every single person at the hospital, even though she had never been there before." He grinned maniacally. "Do you understand? She didn't remember the names, she couldn't, no more than an amputee can use his missing limb. She was picking the names directly from the subjects' minds."

"How is that possible?" Mal asked. "How could brain damage make someone psychic?"

"Well, that's the question isn't it Mr. Reynolds? We know she wasn't psychic before the stroke, but every test the scientists ran after the stroke only confirmed her abilities. It was a scientific mystery." The doc smiled again "But I figured it out." Mal indicated that he should continue. "You see, some people, such as yourself, have an overly active amygdala. No one understood why. Those people are psychic Mr. Reynolds. I have proved that the amygdala in these people actively inhibits that psychic ability."

"So if you disable the amygdala..." Mal began.

"You disable the inhibitory signal and the psychic ability manifests itself," the doc finished.

Someone banged on the door. Thank God for Zoe, right on time, as usual. When the doc went to open it, Mal snagged a blank data stick from the drawer and shoved it in the recording device. He forced the real one into a ripped seam in the cuff of his coat just as the doc returned with Zoe and a woman with a lot of stars on her shoulder that Mal didn't know.

 

*Mal's only supposed to be 25 here but I aged him up a bit for plot purposes.

So that's why they stripped River's amygdala, at least in my mind. Pretty please with sugar on top, take the time to review. Did the neuroscience make sense? What do you think of the idea? I'm not sure how well this flows so any writing tips would be greatly appreciated. Seriously, reviews are my candy.


	4. On the Way to the Valley Part 3

Belated disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I'm just playing with them.

Someone banged on the door. Thank God for Zoe, right on time, as usual. When the doc went to open it, Mal snagged a blank data stick from the drawer and shoved it in the recording device. He forced the real one into a ripped seam in the cuff of his coat just as the doc returned with Zoe and a woman with a lot of stars on her shoulder that Mal didn't know.

Richard Castle glared at his datapad. His dream had ended there and the compulsion to write was fading just as rapidly. He went over what he had written with a critical eye. The reread only confirmed his initial assessment. It was terrible, run on sentences, horrible grammar, no pacing to speak of. Yes, this piece of go-se was, in his professional opinion, quite possibly the worst thing he had ever written.

He'd been inspired by dreams before, had awoken in the small hours of the night with an idea burning in his mind, begging to be let out. It was an occupational hazard, and he accepted that. This time though, it had been different. This dream demanded to be put to the page. He'd nearly killed himself on the way to his desk, not even bothering to turn on the light. Clad only in his boxers, he'd written like a man possessed.

And it was crap. Complete and utter crap.

He swept his palm over his face before checking the time. Damn, 5:45. Alexis would be awake in a couple of hours. He should go back to bed. Supposedly lack of sleep could trigger an episode. He wasn't so sure, he seemed to have just as many attacks when he observed his bedtime as when he stayed awake for days. Nothing he did seemed to make a damn bit of difference.

"Your body is at war Mr. Castle," the pretty doc had told him. "Or at least, it thinks it is."

Five years. It had been almost five years since he had collapsed in his apartment, awake, yet completely unable to move. His mother had connections in the Companion's guild, so that's where they'd brought him. At first, they had thought the problem lay with a certain nerve cluster in his back, but scans had shown no evidence of damage. Even after he was able to move again, they had continued to poke and prod him for months before settling on a diagnosis.

Dysautonomia.

"Do you have a will made out Mr. Castle?"

Even now, his anger at fate burned hotly. He had just turned twenty-three, newly divorced, with a beautiful two-year-old to raise and he had been more than ready to start over, to experience a lifetime of things with her. The idea that his heart could just...stop, for no discernible reason, that hadn't been part of his plan at all. He had never even heard of the autonomic nervous system before he'd gotten sick, had no idea that it controled important things like heart rate and blood pressure and, you know, breathing.

He looked back to his writing.

"You know Mal, life just isn't fair."

He was fairly sure Mal already knew that.

He shook his head. That dream must still be muddling his thoughts. Usually it took at least two books and a fifth of whisky before he started talking out loud to his characters.

Not that he was allowed to drink anymore.

That thought lead to a question. He booted up the cortex and typed in the word "scopolamine". The overly polite screen droned on, using complicated scientific terms like "competitive antagonist" and "antimuscarinic agent". He gathered from the technobabble that it stimulated the sympathetic nervous system like atropine, which is where he must have heard of it because atropine was a big no-no for people with his condition. Then he tapped a link titled "Your Brain on Scopolamine".

The screen jumped to a video of an older lady with a much friendlier voice than the computer. She seemed to be delivering a lecture.

"Memories are facilitated through a brain chemical called acetylcholine," she said with a smile. "When Scopolamine comes onboard it competes with acetylcholine, wins the competition and blocks the acetylcholine receptor in the brain, so that the lock and key fit isn't made. This lock and key fit - lock (acetylcholine receptor) fit with the key (brain chemical acetylcholine) - is important in how you make memories."

Now this was interesting!

She continued. "What we remember goes through three key stages: the initial making of the memory (encoding), creation of long-term memories (storage/consolidation) and recall (retrieval). Scopolamine blocks the first stage, memory encoding, which takes place in the hippocampus – an area critical for memory. In other words, the information never gets stored in the first place."

So the Mal in his story would have no memory of anything that happened once he was given the drug huh? That was a neat twist. Not that he could ever publish such a thing. The censors would have a fit. If they went crazy over something as innocuous as 'Miranda Rights' (and that was something he had never figured out), he didn't want to think about what they might do if he gave them a story about a "Dirty Browncoat". That's why he wrote historical fiction. He could get away with a lot more insubordination when it looked as if he were commenting on the culture of Earth-That-Was.

He sighed. It was too bad really. He kinda liked Mal. His finger hovered over the Delete icon for a long moment before deciding to save the crazy little story in his Junk file. He shut his pad down and promptly forgot all about it.

"Alexis!" he called as he entered the kitchen. He was rewarded with a soft groan from the door at the top of the stairs. "Time to get ready for school, pumpkin. What kind of pancakes do you want?"

Maybe, if he were lucky, his body wouldn't go to war today.

He really should have known better.

 

So there you go! Mal doesn't remember anything, because that is what the drug does. If you squint, this section even fits in the cannon Firefly 'Verse. I worked hard on getting the details of the science right and I hope it worked out.


	5. Spring

Trying desperately to catch her breath, Rina huddled against the back wall of the tiny cave. She hadn't the foggiest idea how the purplebellies had gotten behind them, much less how any of her platoon had escaped with their lives. Hell, she wasn't even sure what side of the Valley they had ended up on. In fact, the only thing she knew for absolute certain was that her new Sergeant was certifiably insane.

"What is this 'Verse coming to Zoe, when a man can't mount an unauthorized search-and-rescue mission, to save a platoon trapped behind enemy lines, during a tactical retreat without it going all to hell?"

"I wouldn't know sir. That usually falls under your area of expertise."

He chuckled. "That it does Zoe, that it does." He switched to his command voice before barking, "OK, listen up! Everybody get good and comfortable because it looks like we're gonna be here awhile. For those of y'all who don't know me, I'm Malcolm Reynolds."

"How's your nut Sarge?" someone she didn't recognize yelled from the darkness.

"My nut is just shiny Earlman, my heart, however, is a bit bruised from hearing that my favorite platoon got itself into a firefight without me," Mal said.

"Not our fault you got yourself thrown in the med tent before the battle even started, Sir!" someone else said.*

"I suppose that's the truth of it," Mal conceded. A few chuckles bounced off of the walls. He grew serious. "Did anybody see what happened to the Lieutenant?"

"Which half of him?" Rina croaked, unable to erase the image of Chang's bisected body splattered across the clearing.

"Well, that answers that question," Mal replied. "Now I ain't fond of speakin ill of the dead, but really, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Rina could hear the grin in his voice. What a wacko. When he began asking about supplies, she tuned his voice out. She didn't have anything. Unfortunately, that caused her to focus on the entirely too large piece of metal sticking out beneath her collarbone. As the adrenaline wore off, her pain began to grow. She failed to notice his approach. She had to suppress a gasp when he addressed her directly.

"You must be new," he said, much more gently than before. "What's your name?"

"Rina," she breathed.

"Now that's a right pretty name," he said, kneeling beside her. "You're from the Core ain't ya?"

She nodded tightly, even though she was pretty sure he couldn't see it. "New New York, on Londinium."

"Yeah, I figured it'd be somethin like that." She couldn't hold back the small scream when he patted her on the shoulder.

"Gorramn it girl," he swore. "Zoe, get the med kit over here!"

She finally gave into the urge to pass out.

It was still dark when she came to. The temperature had dropped considerably, but someone had managed to dress her wound while she was out. She felt a bandage wrapped tight around her left shoulder. Her back was pressed against something warm and solid, and her stomach roiled when she realized who it must be. Chang. Why wouldn't he just leave her alone? Figuring it was better just to get it over with, she turned her head to meet his scaly lips with a kiss. The lips she found were quite a bit softer than she had expected, and a surprised squeak emerged from them that Chang could never have managed.

"Darlin', whatinGodsnamedoyathinkyerdoin?" not-Chang sputtered.

She blinked. Oh right, Chang split down the middle, the clearing, all that blood, Sargent Mal. Wait, what? "What are you doing sir?" she asked.

She could feel the full body blush overtake him, but he didn't let her go. "Well, uh, ya see...you've been out a long time, and it was gettin' kinda cold and you bein' such a little wisp of a thing, and hurt besides..." he gulped and started again, gaining a bit of composure in the process. "We can't light a fire, obviously, so I had everyone double up to stay warm." he finished, nodding towards several dark shapes littered about the cave.

"Let me guess," she said dryly, "nobody wanted to partner up with me?"

"I think it's more like they forgot, you bein' so quiet and all," he consoled. Nervously he asked, "If it makes you uncomfortable, I can get Zoe..."

"No, thank you." she stated. After a short pause she placed her right hand on his thigh and offered, "Are you sure you don't want me to..."

He tensed and the sputtering came back, "Good Lord girl! What makes you think I'd want..." she heard him lock his jaw as he worked it out. "Chang," he said, followed by a long string of Chinese, she didn't quite catch the individual words, but she could certainly draw some meaning from his tone.

He was furious.

"I'm sorry!" she said, frightened. "I didn't mean-I know it's against the rules-I just thought that..." She struggled to get up.

"Darlin', it ain't you I'm mad at" he said. He took a deep breath, calming somewhat. "That hudan is just lucky he's already dead is all." He ran a hand through his hair. "How old are ya anyway?"

"18," she said immediately.

He shook his head. "I ain't your recruiting officer, and you ain't gonna get in trouble; so tell me, how old are you really?"

"15," she whispered.

"Thought that might be it." He didn't seem to notice that he had started patting her hair. She didn't mind. "How didja make it all the way out here?"

"My parents thought I should be a Companion," she explained. "I disagreed. A man I used to babysit for helped me get off world. He even gave me some money to get me started, although most of that was stolen. You remind me of him a bit."

"How so?"

"He was a good man."

"Oh," was all he said.

They sat in silence for a while, until a sharp wind ripped it's way through the cavern. She tried to cuddle closer to him without jarring her shoulder. She almost managed it.

"They don't really have seasons on Londinium, but I thought it was supposed to be springtime here," she said. "Is it supposed to be this cold?"

"Well, Hera's a cold world, and it's early yet." He sighed. "Not like where I'm from."

"Tell me about it?" she pleaded, sounding more like a little girl than she had in a long time.

"Well," he began, adopting the cadence of a natural storyteller, "my world...has a steep axial tilt. Almost thirty degrees, so the seasons were pretty distinct from one another. When it was winter, you knew it was winter and Summer couldn't have been anything else." He smiled. "Spring, on the other hand, spring was a thing of beauty. After three long months of blizzards and ice storms, spring came like a gift from heaven. The ground would be covered in more flowers than grass. The whole face of the world was reborn. The air was so warm and soft that you hardly needed clothes, even at night. There was this one time, when I was fourteen..." he stopped and shook his head. "No, I shouldn't tell you that. That story is wildly inappropriate."

"I won't tell anybody," she teased.

"Well..." he pretended to consider it. "Alright, but, I don't want to be hearin' it from some stranger in the mess tent a week after we get back, dong ma?"

She giggled, then nodded.

"I'll hold you to that, girly," he threatened playfully. "See, I grew up on a ranch, cattle mostly. It was just me and my Ma so we had to hire help. Most of the hands were full grown, but a few weren't much older n'myself. I looked up to them a bit more than was exactly wise, and one night they convinced me to sneak a jug of my Mom's best apple brandy from outta the root cellar.

She grinned. "They got you drunk." It wasn't really a question.

"As a skunk," he confirmed. "I don't quite recall whose idea it was to remove our clothing, but I do remember it was Kirkland who dared me to ride the horse."

"You didn't."

"I did," he replied. "We didn't have many horses but there was this one old bugger, mean as sin he was. We called him Red, on account of his temper."

"What happened?" she breathed.

"I made it near on half a mile afore he bucked me off," he paused for effect,"right into the largest patch of blackberry bushes on the whole damn ranch." He snorted.

"I don't understand," she said, thoroughly confused,"wouldn't that break your fall?"

"Bein' from the Core, I can see how you would think so," he said, "but you see Darlin', blackberry bushes don't only have berries on 'em, blackberry bushes also have thorns, thousands of 'em. Not only did it take me most of the night, but it also it cost me a good part of my hide to get free."

She tried to hold it back, but she laughed hard enough to pull at her wound. She didn't care. Joy filled her heart. How long had it been since she had last laughed like that? She couldn't recall. Behind her, she felt his deep chuckles reverberating through his chest. Wrapped in his arms, it occured to her that she had never in her life felt so safe. "What happened then?"

"By the time I made it back to the house, the sun was already up...and so was my Mother. She told me later that she had never seen a sorrier creature her whole lifelong than me dragging my gangly ass up that porch. She didn't even have the heart to whup me." He shook his head at the memory. "Kirkland didn't get off so easy."

"What happened to Red?" she wondered.

He sighed. "He'd never go near me after that, not that I blame him. He was still kickin' about the ranch when I left."

"Well, maybe he'll forgive you when you see him again."

He stiffened behind her and said quietly, "That ain't like to happen, not in this 'Verse anyway."

The realization struck her like a mag-lift train. "You're from Shadow," she gasped.

He nodded sadly.

"And your family?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"All of them?"

"Every last one," he whispered.

Her heart ached for the man. She knew what it was like to lose almost everything, but her grief was nothing compared to his. Her parents, her home, still existed somewhere, even if she could never set foot there again. She had never considered that a comfort until now.

She couldn't help but ask, "How do you bear it?"

He took a deep breath. "I gotta tell you girly, it ain't easy." His hand fingered something at his neck. "See, I figure that Shadow was just too damn perfect to exist in this 'Verse. When it...died...God musta just swept it up whole and added it to heaven, and that's where they all are, my Ma, Kirkland, even old Red," his voice only cracked a little when he added, "and it's always Spring."

"I think I'd like to go there when I die," she said wistfully, her eyelids drooping.

"The last thing she heard was his voice saying, "I'm sure you will darlin'. I'm sure you will."

Zoe found Mal curled around the girl's body some hours later. He hadn't slept, that much was obvious. She could have chastised him for doing this to himself, again. She told him last night that the girl was dyin', and at least he had had the sense not to argue. It hadn't kept him from cradling her like she was his very own babe all through the long night, however. She could have pointed out the futility of the act, how he needed to conserve his strength for the days ahead...but she didn't. Mal was Mal, just about the stubbornest sumnabitch in the 'Verse, and nothing she said was ever gonna change that.

All she said was "It'll be dawn soon."

"Get the men together," he ordered, pocketing the girl's dog tags before scrambling to his feet. "Let's get the hell out of here." He turned his attention back to the girl. Bending down, he placed a chaste kiss on her temple. Zoe thought she heard him whisper, "Say hello to Red for me."

But it could have been her imagination.

\-----------  
When Beckett asked Richard Castle what had possessed him to steal a parade horse and ride it through the streets of New New York, sans clothing no less, he really didn't know what to tell her. Should he mention the horrible nightmare of Alexis' old babysitter bleeding to death in the dark? Or that he had spent the next three months in the guild hospital, not having any idea if his heart was just going to decide to stop beating? The docs never did figure out what had triggered his fight-or-flight response, or why it had lasted so long. He had lost nearly fifty pounds that time. He couldn't tell her any of that, so he told her what he had told the feds when they had caught up with him, completely out of his mind.

"It was Spring," he said.

And that seemed to be enough.  
\-----------

I think I got Mal's voice right. It's hard, because I don't want to make him sound too country, but I do want him to still sound like Mal. Do you think I managed it?


	6. Breath Part 1

Detective Kate Beckett is, generally, a rather somber individual. She has spent the better part of the last decade fighting for the families of crime victims and the rights of the falsely accused. She manages to remain utterly calm in the most dire of situations. Now, however, it's taking everything she has to keep from laughing in his face.

"It ain't funny Beckett!" he says, clearly furious.

She loses it, dissolving into giggles. He's right, it isn't funny. It's hilarious, and Kate hasn't laughed this hard in a long, long time. Sure, she's a little drunk (though no more than he is), and on top of the "just solved a case" high she's feeling precious little pain. This new situation has pushed her over the edge.

Richard Castle, wordsmith extraordinaire, fumes in his over glorified hospital bed. He crosses his arms aggressively as she studies him. He's breathing a little fast and his face is flushed, but otherwise he seems fine, until he opens his mouth that is.

"I ain't never gonna live this one down, am I?" he blurts, as his eyes go wide in horrified embarrassment. "Gorramnit!" he curses. She tries to catch her breath but it's very difficult.

"Was that a double-negative, Mr. Castle?" she manages.

"I. Can. Not. Help. It." he says, careful to enunciate each word.

Any suspicion that he's faking this fades as he clenches his jaw. He only does that when he is well and truly pissed. Maybe this isn't as funny as it seems. "Seriously Castle," she says, "are you ok?"

"I reckon I am," he replies, all but daring her to laugh. "My heart rate's still up, and I'm breathin' faster than usual but it don't seem to be gettin' worse." He huffs and glares at her. He sighs and marginally relaxes. "At least I'm conscious this time," he mutters.

"This time?" Kate asks, her curiosity overcoming her amusement. He nods. "What is wrong?" she continues.

A smooth as silk voice wafts into the room, followed by the most beautiful woman Kate has ever seen. "He has Dysautonomia," the newcomer asserts. "Although, the foreign accent syndrome is still a bit of a mystery."

"Where's that 'doctor-paitent confidentiality' stuff you folk are always goin' on about?" he muses. His words are harsh but his tone, teasing.

"You signed the waivers, did you not?" she says. The woman flashes a sensual grin in the author's direction that puts Kate's teeth on edge. She flows elegantly across the floor and pulls Castle in to an entirely too friendly embrace. Her skin is the color of the coffee Castle brings her every morning. Kate's wiling to bet that it feels softer than the finest satin. There are few women in the 'verse who can make Kate Beckett self-conscious, but every single one she's met has been a Companion.

Damn it.

And now he's talking again, in that ridiculous accent. "Kate, I'd like you to meet the Companion Amrapali Bimar. She's a vejja, a doctor, and she's been treatin' me on and off for goin' on ten years now." Castle returns the Companion's smile and adds a salacious wink, clearly insinuating that her "treatment" has been more than medicinal. Kate rolls her eyes.

The vejja switiches to a clinical tone of voice as she waves some instrument in front of Castle's chest. "Let's check your vitals over the past week, shall we?" Kate shoots him a questioning look as the Companion adjusts some things on the device.

"I've got an implant," he supplies. "It monitors my blood pressure and pulse and the like."

As the doctor plugs the device into the wall, the bare expanse comes alive with data. It doesn't make much sense to Kate, but Amra scrutinizes each detail with an intensity Kate reserves for her murder holoboards. "You've been doing very well Richard!" the dark skinned woman gushes. "Have you been keeping up with your meditation?"

"Every night," Castle answers, "or I catch hell from my daughter".

Kate tries to imagine Castle meditating and finds she can't do it, mainly because it involves sitting still for extended periods of time, something she's never seen him do in the three years she's known him.

He curses suddenly, "Ching-wah TSAO duh liou mahng!"

She glances over her shoulder and is greeted by the sight of him hunched over with a hand pressed to his left side, pain evident in every line of his face.

"Rick?" she says, alarmed, and takes a half step towards him. He gasps and lurches into a standing position, his eyes unfocused. "What the hell is the matter with him?" she yells as the wall comes alive with activity.

The vejja snaps into action. "What does it look like he's doing?" she snaps, as she sticks her head out the door and yells for a crash cart. "He's dying. Help me lay him down!" she yells.

Kate is frozen to the spot. "Shenme?" she asks, stupidly.

"He didn't tell you did he?" the other woman says.

Before she can answer, Castle's head snaps up. His voice is rough as he answers the companion's question.

"We can already see I haven't."

Then he slams face first, on to the floor.

\---------  
Ching-wah TSAO duh liou mahng: Frog-Humping Son of a Bitch

Shenme: What?

So we're finally getting to the actual episodes! Can anyone guess what Mal's up to right now?


	7. Breath Part 2

Kate Beckett doesn't know what to feel as she watches her partner fight for his life.

Terror is there, certainly. She hadn't been kidding when she had told him that she had gotten used to him. If she were to be honest (for once), she'd gotten quite a bit more than used to him.

But mostly, she is just pissed.

Incredibly pissed.

Because there is no one in the 'verse who can piss her off quite like Richard Castle.

And she is pissed, she is. It's anger that is causing the tremble in her hands and the sick twisting in her gut, and if he would just wake up, she'd tell him so.

He looks so small, lying there in that overglorified hospital bed, so still silhouetted against those silk sheets. The craftmanship of the restraints has not protected him, and his wrists are rubbed raw. His chest rises and falls much too slowly to her mind, but that's better than the gasping she witnessed not an hour before.

Damn it, she almost lost him.

Her mind replays the images over and over, the struggle to get him on the bed, the scream of the instruments as his body goes berserk, the litany of curse words he spews at them, in both English and Chinese, some of which even she hasn't heard before.

Why the hell would anyone want to "fuck the universe to death" anyway?

He kept trying to get up, yelling and then pleading that he needed to "fix her". He favored his left side, as if it pained him, but that didn't prevent him from ripping his robe open as he struggled. She grins a little at the memory. Even in such dire circumstances, Rick Castle can't pass up a chance to get naked.

Not that she minds.

Much.

The vejjae* have been very professional, and have earned her grudging respect. They watched Castle like a hawk and she is certain that they have saved his life several times over. She does wish that they didn't look quite so perfect doing so but...

Castle moans, the first sound she's heard from him in over an hour. Her heart leaps.

"Come on back to me Castle," she whispers, taking one of his hands into her own. She fails to keep the tremor out of her voice. His head turns towards her and he slowly opens his eyes.

"Did I go somewhere?" he mumbles, drunkenly, his face even more childishly open than usual.

He's back, and she's NOT crying, because she is not the kind of girl who gets weepy over any man, even Richard Castle, but she does smile. She'd been so worried, not only that he might die, but also about who he might be when he woke up. She's seen a lot of eyes in her time, but none have matched Castle's. They somehow manage to be both innocent and sexy at once and she's never been so glad to see anything in her entire life. They've lost that cold, hard, almost dead look that they took on during his fit. Those eyes belonged to someone else entirely.

He tries to reach out to her and is stopped by the ornate cuffs. He stares at them blankly for a long moment before uttering a single word.

"Kinky," he says.

And there's the twelve year old again. She can't even bring herself to roll her eyes.

Of course, his wit returns.

"How long was I out?" he asks, as if this happens to him all the time, and maybe it does, but that means he's hidden it from her and now she's angry. Again.

"What the hell was that Castle?" she explodes. He flinches and does his best to look innocent. Unfortunately for him, his movement dislodges the sheet that the vejja wrapped him in.

He is still naked.


	8. Breath Part 3

Like everything here, the garden is lovely. It's enclosed by the Companion house and dotted with exquisitely crafted fountains that babble in an annoyingly calming manner. Above, the stars of Londinium soundless retreat as dawn approaches.

Kate Beckett sighs. It's been one hell of a night.

All she wants, at the moment, is to finish the third sake that delightful young man has brought her and to keep herself from dwelling on a certain image that has become seared into her brain.

But when has she ever gotten what she wants?

In her mind, she sees the slow slip of the silken sheet across his body, coiling in a pile on the shining hardwood. He is still naked, and he is very happy to see her.

There is a LONG silence.

She can't take her eyes off him. He's well built, with only a little extra padding here and there that she would love to get her hands on...He's more muscular than she'd imagined, and she blushes crimson at the thought. Forcing her eyes to his face, she notices that he's not even blushing. Typical Castle, he's lying there on display, wearing absolutely nothing but his customary shit-eating-grin, and SHE's the one dying of embarrassment.

Infuriating man.

"See something you like, Detective?" he asks her, his eyes alight with mischief, as Kate's darken in anger at his damn fool attitude.

"You're a lucky woman, Detective Beckett."

The voice is as unfamiliar as it is unexpected. Kate whirls around, coming face to face with yet another gorgeous companion.

"Excuse me?" she manages. Not the most polite response perhaps, but after the night she's had, she's running a little short on patience.

The smaller, dark-haired woman smiles just a little too graciously. "I feel like I know you a little. From Nikki Heat, the dedication," she prompts. Kate fights the urge to roll her eyes.

"Oh." is all Kate can say.

The companion continues smoothly, "I still read all of Rick's books."

Kate's anger flares again. The last thing she wants right now is to discuss 'Nicki Heat' with a complete stranger, yet, strangely, she feels the need to defend herself. "Yeah, well, most of that book is just a result of Castle's overactive imagination," she snaps, her mind going unbidden to the infamous page '105', and from there it jumps to the image of Castle's naked form. It does not improve her mood.

"It's funny that you call him that, "Castle." When I knew him, he was just "Rick," fresh off his first best-seller."

Kate's annoyance grows at the Companion's familiar manner. She doesn't even know this girl.

"And who are you, exactly?" Kate asks, pointedly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I assumed that Rick had told you. I'm Kyra Blane." The name doesn't ring a bell. Sensing Kate's confusion, Kyra explains further, "I trained with Rick."

Kate's eyes just about jump out of their sockets. Surely Kyra doesn't mean... It's common knowledge that Castle attended school at various madrassas around the Core. It's common for a child of a respected Companion such as Martha's. There are even a few notable core families who choose to send their children there instead of puting them in Alliance schools. Reputedly, they provide an excellent general education program, but the way Kyra said the word "training"... "Wait," Kate sputters, "you're saying that Castle trained as a Companion!?"

Kyra nods, her eyes widening a little in surprise. "I assumed he had told you."

Kate shakes her head. "He's never mentioned it."

Kyra shrugs. "I suppose he wants to keep it out of the tabloids. He could be afraid that it might decrease his respectability as an author." The smaller woman sighs, as Kate scrambles to wrap her head around the concept. "It's a shame, really, that he decided not to pursue it," Kyra adds "He is very talented."

"I don't doubt it," Kate breathes, almost to herself, as she contemplates her memory of Castle, naked as the day he was born, deliciously spread out before her.

Every. Glorious. Inch. Of. Him.

She had no idea that it was possible to blush quite so much in one evening.

Kyra keeps talking. She's either unaware of, or is politely ignoring Kate's embarrassment. "It's not all about physique you know, although Rick is certainly not lacking in that department either," and, to Kate's astonishment, the Companion actually has the gall to wink at her.

Kate's mind scrambles to find a less mortifying topic. "Don't many influential men of the Core have a ... problem ... in that area?" she blurts. She wonders idly how she's gotten herself into a conversation where the erectile dysfunctions of the social elite can be considered less mortifying than the alternative. Then again, she'd never imagined having a conversation about Castle's sexual education and prowess with a knowledgeable Companion either.

Weirdest. Day. Ever.

Kyra grins conspiritorally, "Why Detective Beckett, are you trying to wheedle guild secrets out of me?"

Kate ignores the innuendo, she is genuinely curious. It's something of an urban legend, and she wouldn't have given it a second thought if she hadn't seen for herself how the Alliance cracks down on anyone perpetuating it. If the Alliance denies it, they must be hiding something. She switches into interrogation mode as she contemplates her next attack, but Kyra pre-empts her with a light giggle.

"I'm just joking Detective. Rick told me that I should answer any of your questions honestly. I think his exact words were, 'She's going to figure it out anyway, so why waste time with evasions? Just tell her the truth and get it over with.'"

Kate's lips twitch upward. Of course, Castle would say something like that. "So, yes then?" she prompts.

"It actually ties into the origins of the Companion's Guild itself," Kyra tells her, seriously. "Please understand, we don't usually share this with outsiders..."

Kate nods and waits for the other woman to fill the silence.

After a brief hesitation, Kyra obliges. "When the ships from Earth first landed here, humanity didn't have an easy time of it. We were few, and the land was inhospitable for many years after our arrival."

Kate nods again, every school child knows this much.

"There was a real danger of extinction, so a few scientists got together and worked on developing a treatment that increased reproduction. They used a retrovirus to re-write parts of the settlers' DNA," Kyra explains.

Kate gasps, "That's so dangerous!"

Kyra nods. "That's why it's so heavily regulated nowadays, but things were different back then. For the most part, they succeeded."

"What went wrong?" Kate asks.

"Men." Kyra states simply. "Specifically their collective ego. As far as I understand it, the female scientists wanted to keep the formula simple. They focused on increasing the viability of the egg and sperm, and by extension, the fetus."

"Let me guess," Kate says, "the guys wanted to meddle."

"Bingo!" Kyra answers with a smile. Kate couldn't help returning it. She wasn't sure how, but Kate was beginning to like Kyra. For a Companion, she seems very ... real. She hadn't thought that Castle went for real. She files that thought away for later.

"So what did they try to change?"

Kyra's eyebrow quirks up, her eyes twinkling. "They were Men, what do you think?"

"No!" Kate says

"Yup." Kyra confirms.

"Let me get this straight," Kate says, "the human race was in danger of going extinct and these bastards allocated some of their very limited scientific resources in order to increase the size of their dicks?"

Kyra nods once more. "It sort of worked, too. It didn't really affect the first generation, but the trait was passed on to their children. Unfortunately for them, Karma is a bit of a bitch. The 'extra endowment' came at the expense of functionality."

Kate tilts her head curiously.

"As in, when one goes up, the other goes down," Kyra confirms.

Kate covers her mouth. Even Castle would agree that that is a classic example of irony. She realizes something else, "That's why the Companion's Guild exists!" Kyra confirms her guess.

Kate thinks back to Castle and his impressive ... attributes, "Wait, Castle doesn't...does he?"

"Nope, it all works." Kyra says bluntly and Kate can't believe that she has brought this up again.

Before the situation gets too uncomfortable, one of the doors to the hall opens and Rick's vejja steps out. "Ms. Beckett, there you are." She seems slightly annoyed.

"Lady Bimar," Kate says by way of greeting, "I didn't expect to see you ... so soon." She grimaces. "I was under the impression that Castle required your," she pauses, searching for words before finally settling on, "immediate attention."

"He opted to take care of the situation on his own," the older woman replies tersely. Kyra giggles and earns herself a scathing glare from her matron. "Don't you have work to do, trainee Blayne?"

"If I want to become a vejja like you, sadly, yes," the Companion answers. She draws Kate into an impromptu embrace. "Please, don't leave without saying goodbye, Kate." The Detective agrees, and Kyra disappears back into the house.

Kate turns her attention to the healer. "Now," she says, "was there something you wanted?"

\---------  
Additional Author's Note (/Rant):

Kyra's an exposition whore!

About the Companion thing: I want people to know that (almost) everything that happens in this story happens for a reason. Although it is inherently funny to think of Castle as a Companion, I am not writing it for laughs. I thought about this chapter a lot before I wrote it. I wasn't sure if I wanted to give VerseCastle Companion training and if so, how much. I had already decided that Martha was one, and that fact changes Castle's childhood quite a lot. I imagine that people in the Verse (at least in the Core) are not nearly as puritanical about sex as our society is. (In my story, some of that is due to the reproduction rate problems of the early settlers). Remember, just because he trained as one doesn't mean he's ever actually taken clients. For reasons that Kyra doesn't understand, he still chose to be a writer.

The same sort of thing applies to the core elite's "affliction". It's not just a funny story. Also, remember the narrator. Kyra is a Companion, so of course she'll know the Guild's version of the tale. It happened at least 400 years prior, there could be other versions.

Oh, and Breath is set right after the "Last Call" episode of Castle (The one where he buys the Old Haunt). Obviously, "A Rose for Ever After" never happened, but the rest of the series is pretty much intact (until I decide otherwise). I hope that clears some things up.


	9. Induction

Okayyy...sorry about this. My muse is insane, apparently, and this is what she wanted me to write. It goes back in time to when Rick was 16 and had first been accepted into the Companion training program. This is the same story, I promise, it's just a little farther back than I've written before. I hope you guys like it though. I fully intend to go back and write an M rated version and post it separately at some later date, but at least I can put this in the regular story without changing the rating. At least this one is a complete story, not a cliffhanger or anything. I hope it makes sense.

I own only the parts that sprung fully formed from my twisted imagination. All hail Marlowe and Joss is Boss.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's a good looking boy, she'll grant him that much. Tall, a little bit on the gangly side still, but he's growing out of it. His features are just now beginning to mesh with his nose, and for all the grooming he's learned in the past two years, a few stubborn pimples cling to it yet. There are hints, the barest hints in the ridge of his brow and the cut of his jaw that tell of the rugged handsomeness that he will one day possess.

It is in his eyes, however, that his true beauty lies. Rich as sapphires, deep as the sky at dusk, the blue orbs nevertheless hold a spark of humor, of mischief, that promises to keep him, and those who come to know him, forever young.

He's barely sixteen.

That's unusual. Actually, it's unheard of. The vast majority of applicants are at least a year older and many of them do not gain acceptance for several years after that, if ever.

He's surpassed them all.

Knowing his Mother, perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised. She completed her internship in less than a year, became a full priestess by twenty-five and was in the running for the highest guild office on Londinium a mere ten years later.

And then she disappeared.

For two years, no one heard anything from the great Martha Rogers. When she returned, with a one year old Richard on her hip, she offered no explanations, no excuses, just an announcement of semi-retirement so that she could "raise her son as he ought to be raised".

Whatever that meant.

It was a scandal. Although they can and do act as surrogates for infertile clients on occasion, very few Companions choose to have their own children, and none save Martha Rogers, personally raise them. At least, as far as she knows.

She hasn't come by any of this information first hand of course, that would be against tradition. The inductee must be completely unknown to his or her mentor. A 'clean slate', as it were.

"Welcome, Richard,to this place of Holy Union," she intones, her training taking over. She bows reverently, her hands folded as they should be. He returns the gesture, not quite as graceful but far more eager. "My name is Amrapali Bimar, and I am to be your Companion this evening."

"You honor me, Lady Bimar, for I am but a humble student come seeking knowledge of your art, and am undeserving of such attentions." It's the customary answer, but she is struck by his voice, soft and low, without a trace of the adolescent wavering so common at his age. That voice will serve him well in this profession, or any other she supposes.

She chastises herself silently for allowing the distraction. Tonight is about him, and extraneous thoughts are unprofessional, to say the least.

He is just a boy, after all.

"Your right to be here has been well-earned. You have been judged worthy of the art, and tonight you begin a journey that will join you to us in body, as you have already joined us in mind. In time, you will join us in spirit as well, and on that day I will proudly greet you as an equal, and call you brother".

"But not today," he quips, smirking.

And although his cheeky comment is not part of the ritual, she cannot help but smile at his boldness. "No," she answers, "not today".

They sit and share the tea, according to the tradition. She sees more of his quick wit and humor as they speak, their banter easy and unrestrained.

He's a natural.

He tells her how he tricked the examiners into allowing him to take the tests at only fifteen, pointing out, rightly, that just because no one has ever tried that young, doesn't mean that it's prohibited.

"Easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission," he asserts, and she can't help but agree. He must be nervous, everyone is, the first time, but he gives no sign of it. He is a consummate storyteller, drawing one in without being intrusive. He's teasing, without being cruel. Wo de tian a, this boy could sell ice on Saint Albans.

The tea is still warm when she takes his hand, and if she is slightly overeager, she will beg Bhudda's pardon with extra incense on the morrow.

But not tonight.

Tonight, it is all about him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mal jerks awake to a sweaty brow and sticky sheets. It's far from the first wet dream he's had, (he is a healthy sixteen, after all) but it is, by far, the most intense. Unfamiliar smells and tastes linger on his toungue and in his mind as he slowly regains awareness of his true surroundings. His room on Shadow seems dull and lifeless compared to the vividness that clings to his thoughts.

It all felt so real.

Not that he would know. The farthest he's gotten is a quick peck on the lips, snatched behind the barn from Marry Anne Watkins, when her parents came a-visiting last fall. They had offered Ma their small plot and what little was on it that couldn't be moved off-world. Something about taxes and such. He'd never seen her again.

But he sure had enjoyed that kiss.

This dream had been a hundred times better.

Shaking his head to clear it, he changes the bedding as fast as he can. He's got a long day tomorrow, and he needs his rest.

Plus, there's a chance that, if he falls asleep quickly enough, he might just find that dream again.

He doesn't.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wo de tian a: Dear God in heaven

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Oh, and have I mentioned that I don't mind comments? I don't. At All.

Thanks for reading!


	10. Breath Part 4

I totally own Castle and Firefly. Just call me Joss Marlowe. Sarcasm

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Twenty years on, and there are quite a few things she's learned about Richard Castle.

He's nowhere near as confident as he seems, never has been. He was terrified that night, all those years ago, and the fact that he fooled a trained companion is a testimony to his talent. His chosen name suits him well, hiding the vulnerable boy behind his imagination's formidable walls. In his own way, Richard Castle is as much a fictional character as Nikki Heat. His cocky attitude and snappy dialogue made up on the fly.

He's also very kind and loving, with a keen intellect to match his wild imaginings, and a fierce protective streak that appears only when those he loves are threatened.

He really is ruggedly handsome.

He's also dying.

Every time they bring him in, she wonders if this is it, that his sand has run out, and tonight is the night they will lose him forever. There have been SO many close calls, and just as many false alarms, and she has no idea what differentiates the one from the other.

They call it Dysautonomia, and it is, technically. Every incident has involved some dysfunction of his autonomic system, but the cause, the root of all this madness, eludes her.

It is all so senseless.

It is all so random.

It is certainly not fair.

How is she supposed to explain to this fierce young woman that the man she loves, and despite the Detective's protests Amrapali doesn't have to be a Companion to recognize the signs, could simply...cease to be between one heartbeat and the next?

They're bickering now. Some nonsense about whether a "William Joel" wrote all the songs attributed to him, with Castle arguing "for", because it makes a better story, and Kate arguing "against" due to the sheer number and variety of surviving works.

"It's been five hundred years, Castle," the detective asserts. "Don't you think that things have gotten jumbled since then?"

He's deflecting, and she's allowing it. Neither one seems to want to talk about what happened, what it might mean for them. It's a shame, really, because he probably doesn't have much time to sort it out.

Will he live to share all his secrets? Like the real reason he quit the guild and why he writes, and just how much hatred he holds for the Alliance? That he's walking a fine line between satire and treason?

She hopes so. He deserves to have someone who can have his back, especially when he seems so keen to paint a target on it.

She has her own demons. A mother murdered, a father falsely convicted and dead in prison. A highly visible job, its very existence exposes a societal sore of epic proportions. Murder still happens, and some who commit it get away.

Moral people don't tend to live long in the Core.

Let them have their deflections and their nonsensical bickering. It could be that's all that keeps them sane.

It's enough.

For now.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading!


	11. As We Lay Dying

Mal's heart freezes in his chest.

A most familiar voice, using an all too familiar tone, calls out to him.

"Malcolm Alexander Reynolds!"

Uh oh, she used the middle name. He must be in trouble. He answers without thought. "Yes, Ma?"

"Were you raised in a barn? Shut that door! Storm's a-comin'."

He spins about, and sure enough, black clouds gather on the horizon. The mid-winter sunset holds plenty of color but little warmth. Long, dark shadows stretch across the plains, skeletal fingers scraping across the world that bears their name.

Night is falling.

He's Home.

He's so transfixed by the sight he almost misses her next command. "Make sure Rick knows where to hang his jacket, Mal. I know you just got here, but that ain't no reason to be inhospitable."

"Yes ma'am," he responds before adding, "No, ma'am." His head feels all fuzzy-like and he doesn't quite remember how he got here. Outside, the wind picks up, reminding him that he hasn't followed her initial instruction. He just manages to grab the door before it bangs into the wall. He wrestles it into its frame and drops the latch.

The wind howls, fearsome and impotent. It causes the timbers of the old ranch house to groan in protest.

He leads the other occupant of the room toward the hall, past the door frame that chronicles his childhood in a series of notches and dates carved into its worn surface. The man he assumes is Rick brushes his palm over the indentions as he passes. Mal notices that his guest's head matches the top mark.

How Odd.

Mal bristles at the other man's scrutiny as he places his browncoat on the peg.

"What?" Mal asks finally, as the silence becomes too much.

"Do I know you?" the blue-eyed stranger asks. The man's voice is cultured and low. "Core bred," Mal thinks sourly, "wonderful."

"Mal Reynolds," Mal says, offering his hand.

"Rick Castle," the other answers as he takes it.

The handshake drags on just a beat too long. Mal is struck by the strangest feeling that he knows this man, or should, or did... it's all kinda muddled in his head and uneasiness roils around in his gut. Mal swallows uncomfortably. The other man sports a pole-axed expression that wouldn't look amiss on Mal's own mug...

Wait...

"MAL!" his mother yells again, and the thought flees, half-formed, from his mind. "Dinner's on the table, make sure you wash up beforehand."

"Yes, Ma," he answers and turns towards the sink. Any other time it the fact that he had no recollection of leaving the hallway would worry him a bit, but at the moment, it escapes his notice. He reaches for the pump handle but pulls back when he sees just how filthy his hands have become. They're covered in black ichor and dirt and blood. He looks around for a rag or a towel or something to wipe the stain from his fingers and finds nothing. He can't let the substance foul his home, not now, so he stands dumfounded before the faucet.

"Here," Rick says, moving the handle up and down. "My hands are cleaner," he continues as water begins to flow at last.

Rick is right, his hands are cleaner (although not spotless), and Mal nods is appreciation. The water is so cold it burns, but Mal is determined to finish the job. If there's one thing his mother could never abide, it's dirty hands.

For some reason, he feels sad.

Despite his best efforts, some grime remains trapped under his nails. He continues to pick at it as Rick takes his turn at the sink.

"Maybe she won't notice?" Rick offers, hopefully.

Mal glares at him.

The other man's eyes actually sparkle as he grins maniacally. "You can do the Beckett glare!" he exclaims.

What the hell is a "Beckett"?

Before he can ask, his chest explodes with pain and the whole world ... wobbles more than a bit.

Something ain't right about this, but for the life of him he can't manage to figure out what.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mal rocks the Beckett glare.

Ok, I totally stole this idea from a fic I read about Mal having a near death experience and going back to Shadow and snapping peas with his mom. If anyone knows the name of it, please tell me so I can credit the author! I think it's pretty obvious what Firefly episode this is from, but if I'm wrong and it's at all confusing, feel free to PM me. Heck, feel free to PM me anytime you feel like it, I love to talk to other fans!

I'm sorry this is so short, but like I said; the muse, she is flighty. At least I got to write them interacting this time! (sort of)

Help me lure my muse back with reviews!


	12. As We Lay Dying, Part 2

I own nothing, however I have big plans to fake it and make so many millions off of this that I will be able to pay off all dissenters. That's my plan. Really.

(Sarcasm again)

The food smells Heavenly.

All of his favorite dishes, and some that he has forgotten ever existed, are spread out before them.

It's not really dinner and not really breakfast. It seems to be more of a smorgasbord of culinary delights, nothing gourmet, you understand, but the real, hearty, homemade fare he enjoyed throughout his childhood. Fresh eggs that had been laid only hours before, stacks of pancakes so tall they seem to defy the laws of physics are swimming in syrup and hand churned butter from cream that has probably spent more time inside a cow than out of it, feather-light biscuits in rich gravy, all adorn the sturdy table he remembers so well. The dining hall on Serenity is only a pale reflection, but it was the best he could manage given the circumstances.

His mother interrupts his musing. "You gonna keep tryin' to catch flies with that mouth, or are ya gonna sit yourself down so we can say Grace?"

Well, there's not much he can say to that, so he does as he's told, taking the seat just to the right of his mother. Rick sits opposite him, looking more than a bit uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," Rick begins, "Have we met before? It's not that I don't appreciate all this, but I don't like to eat when I don't know the hostess."

"At least some folk round here have a smattering of manners!" Mal's Ma exclaims, her harsh words softened, as always, with her signature grin. "My name is Elizabeth Reynolds, but most everyone 'round here just calls me 'Aunt Betty'."

"I don't," Mal says, joining in the teasing, "and I've got more cause than anybody!" Realizing that he had gone too far when he saw the spark in her eyes, he prepares to backpedal. She doesn't give him a chance.

"There's more to being a mother than Birthin' boy, and don't you forget it! My brother, God rest his soul, entrusted you to me, and you will keep a civil tongue in that mouth of yours at my table, dong ma?"

"Yes, Ma'am." He tries to keep the sullenness out of his voice, he really does, but something about her scrutiny tells him that he doesn't quite manage it. When she lets him off the hook with a sharp nod he releases a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. There is something to be said about social niceties, if only to spare him a tongue-lashing every now and again. Mal's lucky, the last hand who crossed Liz Reynolds at the dinner table slunk back to his bed with no supper and tears in his eyes, and he was no boy neither.

"May I say Grace?" Rick asks, surprising Mal. He doesn't seem like the religious type. A quick glance at his guest convinces Mal that he's just trying to smooth things over a bit, and. somewhat miraculously, it works. His Ma's eye crinkle as she smiles at Rick, all trace of anger gone.

"That would be lovely, Mr. Castle," she answers, the very picture of serenity. "Thank you."

Rick folds his hands in an oddly formal manner before he begins, but the prayer is one he knows all too well. Mal's heart aches again as Rick intones the familiar words.

"Lord, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot Change. The Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference."

"Amen," Mal finishes, the habit so ingrained that the word escapes before he can stop it.

"Amen," his mother echoes, and they sit in silence for what seems like an eternity, but must only have been a few seconds. Mal shifts uncomfortably in his seat and the spell is broken.

"Let's eat!" his mother exclaims.

And they do.

I know, it's short, again, but I figured that something was better than nothing. My laptop finally died so I have to share this computer with my three boys (2 sons and a hubby). I'm never sure when I'll be able to write. I'll do my best though.

Anybody catch my big reveal?

Thanks for reading!


	13. As We Lay Dying, Part 3

You know the new Firefly and Castle stuff that's about to come out? I don't own it, but I do enjoy it immensely.

Rick Castle might be a bit of a core-bred pansy, but Mal has to admit that he can spin one hell of a yarn. He hasn't laughed this hard in a long damn time.

"And then I said, 'Yeah. Except psycho here needs a breath mint.'" the man gushes, and Mal can't help but be pulled into the climax of his story. Rick does not disappoint, crafting the reveal expertly. The suspect killed his sister, not just for money, but also to get back at his dad.

"So Beckett's yelling at him to drop the gun, and I feel his grip loosen. so I plant my feet and slam my elbow into his face, BAM!" Rick mimes the movement and nearly topples over backward in the sturdy chair.

Mal grins and shakes his head. "You are just about the luckiest summabitch I ever heard tell of." Mal interjects. "You were practically begging for a bullet, Rick!"

"No, he had the safety on the whole time." Rick answers confidently.

"Who says I was talkin' about him?" Mal continues. between sips of fine Shadow-brewed beer. "From what you've told us, you should've been more worried about her!"

"It may have crossed her mind," Rick acquiesces with an answering grin.

His ribbing gaining momentum, Mal continues, "Besides, if you're going to snark, you might want to wait until you're the one holding the gun."

"Like you do?" his Ma says.

"Well, I ..." he begins and something in his expression makes his co-diners burst out laughing.

"I never said I followed my own advice," he says once the noise dies down. "I'm just lucky I've got Zoe watching my back."

Rick glances up, curious. "Is that your wife?"

Mal chokes on his mouthful of burger (weren't they eating breakfast not too long ago?) "No," he coughs, shaking his head to aid in the denial. "No, Zoe's my first mate. She's had my back since the war and has got more sense than any three of me." He took another sip. "Though I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from lettin' her know that. God knows I get little enough respect on that ship as is."

"So," Rick pushes, "you're not married?"

Mal grimaces "Well, that's a matter of debate actually..."

"Sounds like there's a story there," Rick says, his eyes twinkling in a way that Mal don't much like.

He's about to tell Rick to take his curiosity and shove it where the sun don't shine when his mother pipes up. "Yes, Mal, please, I would Love to hear about your adventures in Holy Matrimony."

"Weren't nothing holy about it," Mal grumbles, but he knows he's caught. His Ma's a soft-spoken woman most of the time but when she gets an idea in her head she'll pursue it like a dog on the hunt. "Fine," he says, "Although I think I'm gonna need a few more beers to get through this. It all started when we got us a job sussin out bandits on this little ol' moon called Triumph..."

Mal ain't no slouch at storytelling hisownself, and before long, he has his audience enraptured. He tells about the how the plan actually went smooth, for once, and how they all came back to the village to celebrate. He describes how this pretty girl comes up to him and puts a flower crown of all things on him and after some more wine, drags him up to dance. He talks about how he found her hidin in the hold and how she insisted that they had been wed. He has them in hysterics as he describes his crew and their reactions to his predicament.

"He really calls it Vera?" Rick asks when Mal pauses to wet his throat.

"Yep, and you don't wanna know the names he has for the rest of 'em." Mal grins at the thought of his big merc cuddling "Pookie" to his chest, near tears after a misfire tore up the barrel of the six-shooter.

"Dualy noted," Rick responds. "There are some things than man just isn't meant to know."

"Ain't that the truth," Mal agrees, and continues his tale. He stresses how meek and submissive Saffron acted, and how he figured that it was just her way and did his best to help her toughen up a bit before he had to set her loose in the cold, cruel verse. "Anyway, I had a berth all made up for her in the passenger dorms, so I figured she'd found it and taken her rest when I climbed down into my own bunk, more than ready to put the whole damn day behind me..."

"She was in your bed, wasn't she?" Rick prompts, and Mal tries to hide his slight flush at the memory.

"Naked as the day she came cryin'," he confirms, but stops when he catches a glimpse of his Ma's amused grin.

"Well, go on," she prompts, and the slight grin in her voice does nothing to quell his embarrassment.

He clears his throat. "Well, as I was trying to get her to relocate to the nice comfy dorm I'd arranged for her, she, well, she ended up kissin' me," he finished lamely.

"What happened then?" his Ma asks, a wicked gleam in her eye that he's never liked, and he's never been more grateful to be able to tell her the absolute truth.

"I blacked out."

"She was a plant!" Rick guesses, correctly. "She totally played you."

"Like a harp," Mal admits. "I came to on the floor of my bunk with my crew around me. The doc told me about this whole 'Goodnight Kiss go-se' and Zoe filled me in on our situation. She'd sabotaged Serenity and sealed the bridge, before stealing a shuttle and taking off. She made the mistake of tryin' to seduce 'Nara before the alarms went off and 'Nara figured out what she'd done. 'Nara ran to my bunk and got the doc before she passed out from the same poison I did." He grins at the thought of Inara's encounter with Saffron and once again wishes he had been there to witness it, though he's replayed in his imagination often enough. He's only human, after all.

Rick's brow furrows like he's working something through. "How far is your bunk from the shuttle docks?" he asks, finally.

That's an odd question. "About five, maybe ten meters, why?"

"And you said you had to climb down a ladder?" Rick says, ignoring Mal's query.

Mal answers, "Yeah, so?"

"Then your Companion could not have kissed her," Rick concludes.

"How do you figure that?" Mal asks. To be honest, he's a little angry at Rick doubting what Mal considers the best part of his story.

Rick doesn't seem to notice Mal's agitation and continues excitedly. "The timeline doesn't fit. I happen to be familiar with that particular drug, don't ask, and I know that it takes no more than thirty seconds to take effect on someone your size. Assuming that she's smaller than you," Mal nods, "it would take even less time to affect her system."

Mal begins to grow uneasy, but isn't ready to concede the point. "So?"

"So, she wouldn't have had time to hear the alarms, figure out what had happened, and make it to your bunk, much less call for help, before losing consciousness.

Mal's still a bit confused but his Ma has that grin again. What's he missing? "So she really did hit her head then?"

"Nope," Rick grins, "she was definitely poisoned..."

There is somethin' about this Mal just doesn't see. His ma ruffles his hair and chuckles. "Oh Mal..."

This is beginning to piss him off. "Where'd the poison come from then?" he demands.

"The only other place on the ship that was contaminated by it..." Rick leads, Mal's eyebrows fly up as he realizes what Rick is insinuating.

"She kissed you Mal!" his ma finishes for him, as all Mal can do is sit back in a state of shock.

"Well," he breathes, not entirely sure how to react to this new information that has the potential to rearrange his thinking about more than a few things,

"Ain't that something?"

Yay! Two updates in one week! I'd like to thank SelimPensFiction for talking with me and inspiring me to get this down on (electronic) paper. I know that I'm a slow writer, and I appreciate all of my readers for putting up with my inconsistent updates. You are what keeps me writing (otherwise, it'd just stay locked up in my head, not doing anybody any good). I treasure each and every comment, and the more I get, the faster and better my writing gets. Thank you all


	14. As We Lay Dying, Part 4

Yay! New chapter of my serious story. I got a little carried away with the 'verse building, but I think it works. Enjoy!

 

Before he can even begin to untangle the knot Rick's revelation has made of his thoughts, the awful, burning pressure erupts in his chest once again. The world blurs, and he feels an odd little tug centered somewhere behind his navel region. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it isn't pleasant and it seems to be gettin' more insistent by the second. Now, it's no secret that Mal is a bit, well, contrary-like by nature, and, as such, there's little he hates more than bein' jerked around without his say-so. He ain't quite ready to leave just yet, and after a short struggle, the pull lessens.

He takes a steadying breath, and tries to focus on the present.

"Would you like that last crescent roll, Mal, or may I have it?" Rick asks. Neither he nor his Ma seem to have noticed his lapse in concentration.

"Yeah, sure, knock yerself out." Mal responds.

Rick snatches the bread from the serving platter and uses it to get at the last remaining smidgen of "Aunt Betty's Famous Beef Stew" in his bowl. For some reason, Mal's serving is untouched, and, despite how much he's consumed this night, his mouth waters at the savory aroma. Shadow-raised beef cubes drown in the gravy alongside large lumps of fresh onions, carrots, and potatoes, seasoned by the tiniest bit of roasted garlic and pepper. It don't sound like much, but wow, he couldn't have asked for better food in heaven. The smell itself brings back memories of long, cold, nights spent by the fire, feelin' that fine sorta ache that only comes from a day of good, hard, honest work. It's something Mal hasn't tasted for an age or more, so he gathers up his spoon and digs right in.

It's even better than he remembers.

Rick starts running his mouth again. "Ms. Reynolds, I must say, this is the most exquisite stew I have ever tasted!" he gushes, and Mal might have rolled his eyes if he didn't agree wholeheartedly. His Ma blushes prettily, transforming her slightly worn face from merely handsome to something beautiful.

"It ain't so hard when you got the right ingredients," she demurs. "Shadow-fare's the finest there is, and that ain't no boast."

"She's right," Mal adds, pausing in his inhalation of the tasty meal. "We've got a long growing season and rich soil. Long as the rains come regular, there ain't no finer land in the "verse." His Ma nods.

"The high plains are perfect for ranchin' and the midlands all but sow themselves," she adds. "Treat it right, and this land will take care of you your whole lifelong."

Mal sighs.

"Now don't start your gripin' Mal. We're tryin' to have a civil meal, and Rick here, he don't wanna listen to your politics."

"What do you mean?" Rick asks, innocently enough.

"Oh here we go..." his Ma groans.

"Magister Henshaw is so crooked he could hide behind a corkscrew, and everyone knows it," Mal huffs. "The big farms down south are usin' up the land, and he just lets 'em do it. This drought ain't helpin, neither, leastwise it ain't helpin' anyone save for the hudan down in the capitol who can tax the hell out of what water we do get."

His Ma breaks in, "Mal! language!" she snaps.

Mal raises his hands. "I'm sorry Ma, but you know I wouldn't harp on it so much if it weren't true."

Rick stays silent during the exchange, soaking up the information like a sponge. Mal wonders if he's heard any of this, livin' on the core. Maybe he's never given a second thought to where all that fancy food comes from, or the people who work to provide it. He looks like he's thinkin' now, and Mal figures that's the best he can hope for at the moment. He don't hate the core folk, not really. He don't know most of 'em, and is happy to keep it that way. It's difficult for him to imagine a place where you can sit around all day and do absolutely nothing useful or important. Ranchin's hard work, true enough, but it's honest, and it's work that yields tangible results. He suspects that some of the core folk wouldn't know what to do with themselves without the Government tellin' em.

It's kinda sad really.

His Ma interrupts his musing "That may be so, but it ain't proper dinner conversation, and you know it."

"Yes, Ma," he concedes.

They eat in silence for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Rick pokes experimentally at his squash casserole, almost as if he's afraid it might jump off the table and bite him. Mal chuckles, and busies himself with his last bit of stew. Rick risks a taste, and the look on his face almost makes Mal spew his mouthful.

"You think that's strange, you should try okra," Mal says.

"That's ok," Rick responds, "I think I'm just about full.

"I guess that means more dessert for us, Mal!" his Ma teases.

Rick's ears all but stand on end as his voice raises about two octave before squeaking, "Did somebody say Dessert?" Good Lord, how old IS he?

Mal starts to say 'That's our cue to clear the table,' before he realizes that the remains of the meal have vanished along with his mother.

Before he can think about it too hard, she sweeps in, carrying the silver-covered platter that only comes out on special occasions. Mal can't see it, but he has a sneaking suspicion that his own grin may be wider than Rick's.

"What is it?" Rick asks, like an excited puppy.

Elizabeth Reynolds sets the dish down and pulls the lid back with a familiar flourish.

"Blackberry Cobbler!" she announces, shooting Mal a wicked wink and grin.

Rick starts laughing, and his Ma joins in. Whenever one of 'em calms down, the other snorts or guffaws and the whole thing starts over. Mal's not sure how much more he can take. Finally, they quiet down enough for him to get a word in edgewise.

"That ain't funny, y'all."

The giggles erupt again.

Mal sighs. You take ONE clothing-impaired tumble in a briar patch and you hear about it forever.

It just ain't fair.

 

I figure that Shadow's climate is sort of like that of the North American Great Plains region. Over farming there in the early part of the 20th century caused the dust bowl, which devastated the environment and ruined the livelihood of a whole bunch of people. I imagine that that's what is beginning to happen here (or at least, was happening when Mal left), and the Alliance refused to do anything about it. It's a very interesting time period that was shaped by lots of different factors. I imagine that the environmental damage on Shadow is one of many things that lead to the rebellion.

Thank you all for your thoughts and comments! You rock! Reviews are such, super awesome things, everyone should write them!

;)


	15. As We Lay Dying, Part5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of an arc!

Mal steadies his coffee mug as he leans back. He sighs the singularly contented sigh of a person who is well and truly stuffed before risking a sip of the steaming liquid.

It is hot and rich and bitter, just as it should be.

The three of them sit in silence for a long while.

"Well," his Ma says, finality in her voice, "It's about that time, boys."

Time to go, she means, and Mal experiences an unexpected twinge of loss. The house shakes again with the forgotten storm and a strange sort of homesickness wells up in his heart.

He doesn't want to go.

His Ma looks at him with loving sympathy. It's the same look she gave him the day his first pony broke her leg and had to be put down.

He hates that look.

Rick doesn't seem to catch it and he protests. "We're leaving?" he asks in confusion. "Now? But it's dark! The storm is getting worse!" He sounds like Mal feels, like a scared little boy.

"Only way out is through," his mom replies. "You'll pass through it soon enough."

For some reason, the words resonate with Mal. They give him courage.

"C'mon Rick, let's get our coats."

So they do.

His Ma stops them in the entryway. She stands them next to each other and gazes deep. Taking a steadying breath, she addresses them both.

"You've got a dark road ahead of ya, and no mistake," she asserts, her eyes shining with tears or pride, or maybe both, he's not sure. "I wish I could be there, walk it with you, but I can't, and so you'll have to be there for each other."

Mal sneaks a confused look at Rick and catches a mirroring glance back.

Blue eyes. Brown Hair. Rugged Features...

Somethin' ain't right.

"Ma, what the blazes...?" he trails off as the infernal tugging begins again, and this time it doesn't abate but grows stronger and more insistent by the second.

"I'm sorry Mal, and you too Rick. We done our best for the two of ye, but it ain't enough. They know, and it's about to bring a whole world of trouble down on the both of ya."

"Who ... knows what?" Rick pants, and Mal can tell he's fighting the same pull, and that they're both losing.

"We love you both, so much," Mal hears his Ma say as his vision fades. "Remember that. And when it's all over, I'll be waiting..."

Mal's heart surges in his chest and he takes an agonizing breath. His body is afire, aches and pains and a hundred little agonies that should be masked by the larger torment, and yet, paradoxically are not. He smells stale air and blood, the metallic taste of welding and a noxious odor associated with one man he wishes with all his being he'd never met.

"Mr. Reynolds..." the sinister voice sings, and Mal fights the urge to groan. "You died, Mr. Reynolds..." and Mal can't help but smile. He opens his mouth to speak...

"Seemed like the thing to do." he manages, before being attacked by a VERY irate detective.

She's lying on top of him and she seems to be sobbing. His shirt is undone. A dark haired man stands at his bedside sporting defibrillator paddles and a smugly concerned expression.

Josh. The man's name is Josh.

Memory rushes back. They're on Ariel. St. Lucy's hospital. There was a break in and several murders, the main person of interest being Dr. Josh Davidson...

Kate's boyfriend.

Before he can get much further than that, he is violently shaken by the same woman occupying his thoughts.

"Goddammnit Castle!" she yells, "don't you EVER do anything like that to me again, dong ma?"

"Do what?" he asks, feeling stupid but too curious to care. "What happened?"

"You collapsed," the doctor supplies as Rick rubs at his eyes, trying to ease the pounding that has taken up residence in his skull. That explains why he's in the bed, but not why Beckett is so upset..."

'You DIED, Castle," she croaks, and he was right, she has been crying, and it's his fault. "You flat-lined, out of nowhere ... we were just talking, building theory, and then you..." She can't seem to continue.

"She was giving you mouth-to-mouth when I arrived," Josh adds, and as much as Rick would love to make some asinine comment about that, even he realizes that now is not the time.

"My implant alerted you?" Rick asks.

"As the nearest physician, yes," Josh answers.

"Along with half the hospital," Kate adds.

Rick leans back, too tired to process much more at this juncture. He was dead. Strange, he hadn't felt dead. He'd felt, welcomed. Home. Flashes of memory assault him, a meal, a family, things that could not have happened because he was..."

He groans.

He decides to move on and wonder about it later. "What about the case?" he asks, and Kate stiffens. Not a good sign.

"We've cleared Josh..." she begins, "but it seems our assistance is 'no longer required'," she grimaces and glances across the recovery room at two stiff-necked gentlemen in suits who are trying not to appear as if they are watching. One of them cups his hand to his ear and Rick sees a flash of blue covering the fingers.

That's weird.

"So what do we do?" he asks.

"We go home," she answers tersely, all but grinding her teeth together. He understands her frustration. He can't forget the sight of those bodies on the floor, twisted in agony and surrounded by blood, just like the photo of Johanna Beckett in that damnable file...

This has to be killing her.

There's nothing for it but to pack up and go home. Josh kisses Kate goodbye thanks them for clearing his name. The trip back to Londinium is quiet and tense, with both of them lost in their own thoughts. Once he returns, Rick books an appointment with Amra but he doubts she'll find anything.

She never does.

 

So, Josh was the heart surgeon who's ass got saved by Simon in Ariel. The feds were going to pin the whole incident (the theft and the deaths) on Josh until Castle and Beckett came and proved him innocent (Because this 'innocent until proven guilty BS is SO Earth-that-was). What do you think of Mal's mom's warnings? Let me know!


	16. Epilogue: The Third Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hee, Hee, Hee...

He didn't feel the heat as the late summer wind rustled his dark clothing. He wasn't excited, or afraid, or even pleased for that matter.

He didn't feel anything.

He never had.

His intrusion went unnoticed, as was his intent. He knew how not to be seen.

He found his target alone in the bedroom, drunk by the smell of it. He extended his senses towards the man, but the fogginess brought on by the alcohol made it impossible to find what he had come for.

Change of plan, then.

He slipped through his opulent surroundings, a ghost in deed. He snuffed out the lives like candles, one after another, until only two remained.

Himself, and his prey.

When he entered the bedchamber it took several seconds before the fool even noticed his presence. The drunken man barely had time to raise his sword before the intruder flowed effortlessly within it's range. He delivered a blow to the idiot's solar plexus and appropriated the blade before resting it flush against the fallen man's neck.

Atherton Wing's bloodshot eyes went wide as he looked upon his assailant.

"You!" Wing snarled, before his brows bent in confusion. "But you're much too young..."

The assassin's lips curled into something that might have resembled a smile, save that no trace of it reached his eyes.

His ice blue, cold as death eyes; framed by ruggedly handsome features and soft brown hair.

"Tell me everything you know about Malcolm Reynolds," the boy said.

And Wing did.

 

Duh duh duuum...!

So that's the end of "Connection". I hope everybody liked it. I could have written more but I wanted to get to the actual story part instead of these prequel arcs.

I want to thank everyone who has read and especially those who have reviewed this story. I never imagined that I would get this far but now I'm looking forward to telling my full tale in the next part. It will be called "Interaction". Look for it!

Oh, just so you know, comments help me write faster... Just sayn'


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